


Tiger Kidnapping

by RueRambunctious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blackmail, Cybercrimes, Cybersex, Enemies to Lovers, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, POV Alternating, Sex Is Not The Enemy, Sex Work, Strangers to Lovers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-01-31 21:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18599488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: The thing about growing up under the IRA means that you know about things like tiger kidnapping.The thing about being new at all this means that sometimes one might make a mistake.The thing, the really important thing, is that when an exasperatingly sexy thug sends a burgeoning criminal mastermind a downright disrespectful bit of media it can… all go terribly, perplexingly, wonderfully right.*The reason for Choosing Not To Use Archive Warnings is that I'm not sure how violent this one will be yet. I won't kill off anyone by surprise, don't worry.





	1. The Discharged Soldier and The Rich Roommate

The thing about being dishonorably discharged from the British military and bringing disrepute upon one's notable family name, is that it all rather snowballs from there.

Sebastian Moran had never been a particularly good heir, but insofar as he is blessed with good looks, charm, and a thorough education, and has an aptitude for sport, shooting, womanising and spending money, one might be forgiven for mistaking the young rogue for a passable Moran. Youth is permitted its indiscretions after all, and a young Moran man's blood runs hotter than most. They are passionate, virile creatures made for (beneath an expensive veneer of respectibility) fucking and fighting.

Sebastian Moran has always excelled at fucking and fighting, but he never was very good at adhering to the proper way of doing such things. Buggery, for example, was best done with a woman, and if otherwise should really be left at Eton with the rest of a young man's hormonal foolishness.

Fighting, of course, should be done for the glory of one's country or for one's family honour. It certainly ought not be demonstrated by striking one's commanding officer for breaking up debauched tomfoolery with the locals (the least said about the better).

Given these circumstances, it is hardly surprising when Sebastian takes up lodgings with a young woman of ill repute, seemingly given to loose morals and costly undergarments, but it is widely considered quite scandalous when Seb declares that he isn't sleeping with the little strumpet.

Miss July Mackinnon, whom Sebastian insists upon referring to as 'Monty' for no real reason that his Moran kin can ascertain, is entirely and most certainly, the young future Lord insists, utterly gay. Sebastian Moran has been stripped of his military rank and moved in with a little lesbian – a Scot, to boot- who allegedly sells herself, and what reason could he have to do such a thing, if not mere, ugly spite?

The ungrateful little whelp.

His kind determine to have nothing more to do with him, save for nasty gossip at extravagant parties, and during golf, and over crustless sandwiches, and whenever else wealthy tongues wag.

Sebastian Moran doesn't bloody care. In actuality, he's rather glad to be shot of everyone. It's quite refreshing to live with a woman who's entirely comfortable about your being a raging bisexual, and who doesn't care a jot about where your family's money comes from.

Monty is quite capable of making her own money, and plenty of it. She does not, as his parents believe, 'sell herself' but she does do a professional job of marketing herself. Monty is a modern woman, of the digital age, and she was not born into a life of debutante balls or lawn croquet. Monty, known online as Juliette Montague (and almost never as her given name, July Mackinnon), is a camgirl and a femdomme, and she requires no sparkler on her ring finger to have men take out their plastic and order from her Amazon wishlist.

Monty, Sebastian Moran believes, may well be living her best life, and Sebastian wants to emanate that for himself. He just has to figure out what he wants to do with said life first.

If one must be poor, he ought market his talents, else he may starve. Sebastian Moran is nowhere near starving yet, having been in receipt of a healthy army wage without enough leave in which to spend all of it (despite his gambling efforts). However, he must have an occupation. The thing he is best at and loves the most in the whole wide world is shooting, but with the fresh black mark against any future hopes of being vetted, he's never going to be able to bear arms for Queen and country again.

He tries not to let that bother him.

Sebastian writes, sometimes. He has a laptop, but isn't very good with it, and often reverts to scribbling in notepads when the mood takes him. He writes about shooting things, and tracking things, but he knows he's not especially talented at it. He talks about it with Monty, and she shows him how to find forums online where he can prattle off gun stats so much that strangers on the internet make him a moderator.

It doesn't pay, but it's pleasant to talk about guns, and Monty tells Sebastian there are people so marvellous with computers that they could probably get his black mark removed, but such services likely be very expensive.

Sebastian Moran has never really had to wonder whether he can afford 'very expensive' before.

He has also never before lived with a woman who gets paid to parade about the kitchen in her underpants 'cooking' box macaroni that she doesn't actually eat. He's grown accustomed to walking around the damned umbrella lights without knocking them over whilst she's filming and he is not one to turn his nose up at her discarded pasta.

Monty leans towards her camera, smiles, and makes a show of curling around her dinner bowl, pushing up her chest as she loads her fork. She makes a noise that can only politely be described as 'happy' and Sebastian reaches out to kill the live feed.

“I'll make an assistant of you yet, Sebby,” Monty says. She hands over the food. “Consider this your payment.”

“Let me guess, my bonus is doing the dishes?” Sebastian says. He is already shovelling pasta onto his fork.

“You've a reprieve there; I have a private show doing just that before my main show tonight,” Monty says.

“You hate doing the dishes,” Sebastian says around his food.

“And I hate when you talk with your mouth full,” Monty grumbles softly. “I do, but supposedly this one's a big tipper. More than usual.”

“What's usual?” Sebastian asks.

“Depends on the traffic, the platform...” Monty shrugs. “I like to hit at least a grand every day, and I'm often well over that, but sometimes I don't come close. This guy's going to give me about half of that just fannying about with some Fairy Liquid, and not even anything particularly dirty. If only all my clients were as easily pleased.”

Sebastian Moran has also never before lived with a lesbian who soaped her tits for a recommended stranger on the internet. “Do I need to adjust the lights for that?” he asks. “Adjust the… what-you-call-it… diffuser?”

Monty smiles at him. “I'll have you being my assistant and my technician in no time.”

Sebastian snorts and looks back to his hot meal. “As long as I'm not your fluffer.”

Monty grimaces. “Ew,” she chuckles. “Taking a man's money is one thing but that's just gross. Almost as gross as you eating like that. Close your mouth when you chew.”

“Are you saying being disgusting isn't an earner?” Seb grins. “Doesn't the weird stuff pay more?”

“It pays enough that I can spend around three hundred dollars a month on model protection,” Monty says dryly. “Do you know how much that is? About two hundred and thirty quid. A month. To ensure other people deal with the little pricks online who try to screw me over.”

Sebastian's ears prick. “Protection money?”

Monty takes away his utensil forcefully. “I warned you. Eat or speak; not both at once,” she scolds before explaining, “There's no shooting things or roughing people up. It's like preventing piracy of my content, and chasing up reports of people who do that sort of stuff.”

Sebastian sighs. “Working in physical protection sounds good. Maybe I could start as a bouncer or something.”

“I think you need a license for that,” Monty muses. She hands him back his fork. “Finish this so I can Snap it, will you?”

“I've been trying to,” Sebastian grins.

Monty leans against the counter. “Make it quick. Some of us are antsy because we need to phone our accountant.”

Sebastian swallows before speaking. “You've got a job for everyone don't you? Practically upholding our economy single-handedly.”

“Well someone's got to,” Monty mumbles. She chews her lip. “My accountant gives me the creeps though. Be my protection and stay beside me whilst I call him?”

Sebastian chews and then swallows, looking thoughtful. “Maybe I can shoot him for you.”

Monty rolls her eyes. “Then I'd have to do maths myself, and that's even worse. No shooting anything except for film for the time being. Besides, do you even have a gun license anymore?”

“Do I need a license for everything?” Sebastian mutters. “At this rate I'll have to become a bank robber.”

Monty scoffs and holds up her phone. “Oh no, you just need to catch one by the… you know.”

Sebastian snorts. “You think I could get myself a sugar daddy with the breadth of these shoulders?”

“You're right, you should stick to washing dishes,” Monty says warmly.


	2. The 'Accountant'

The next appointment is with Miss July Mackinnon, whose only real saving grace is that she is just clever enough to dilute her bubbly nature to a mild froth in his presence. She makes her money persuading people that the removal of her clothing – to reveal a distinctly ordinary body- is somehow worth their otherwise coveted coin, and she does it all under the distinctly uninspired moniker of Juliette Montague. She probably thinks herself witty, although amongst her peers the bar is unarguably low.

Jim is uncertain whom he hates more: the fools who shall never show potential, or those drab quartz stone people who have just enough of a gleam about themselves to be disappointing upon further scrutiny.

Jim's expectations are low, but there is something exasperatingly disappointing about Miss Mackinnon.

For all the confidence 'Juliette' shows on camera, she always seems to be a twitchy character in his territory. She has just enough brains to suppose most of his clients to be criminals, and whilst she is not incorrect in that assumption, she is moronic not to realise HE is the real threat.

Jim leans back in his chair and ponders whether to begin her appointment a little behind its scheduled time in order to leave her cooking in her own anxiety in his waiting room. He has had so few amusements today.

Still. Sweat may not be the bodily fluid Miss Mackinnon is known for, but Jim would rather not have it cleaned from his furniture.

Movement outside activates a dormant window on his laptop. Jim barely glances at it, his finger already on the security button, but something irregular is present in the flickering image.

Juliette has brought company.

Jim does not have to run facial recognition software to identify the stranger: Jim Moriarty keeps close tabs on all of his business associates and that includes taking note when the cam girl on his books takes in a disgraced noble brat.

Lord Sebastian Moran is a mildly interesting creature, given his documented taste for violence and absolutely not because there is anything at all -even the minutest bit- remotely intriguing about those exceptionally broad shoulders.

The silly girl should not be bringing in muscle to what ought to be a 'friendly' chat about her numbers. She had better not be reckless enough to attempt a renegotiation of his terms. Jim is not a malleable fellow.

Still, he permits the pair entry. The day has been woefully boring.

Jim switches screens and watches from the live security footage as Miss Mackinnon leads Lord Moran up the narrow, period staircase towards his place of business.

Jim picks up the landline phone on his desktop. He quick-dials his secretary. 

“Make them wait a beat, will you,” he comments then hangs up dismissively. He rolls his neck, stretches, and massages his face. After a moment he rearranges himself into the character Monty dearest is most familiar with.

Jim looks out the appropriate files for the meeting and runs a critical eye over them. His memory is not one that requires such a refamiliarisation, but he has built a habit of mimicking the behaviour of lesser people.

He pulls up another window: that of the waiting room's CCTV. Jim steeples his fingers and silently examines the scene therein. Miss Mackinnon is wearing expensive businesswear over her lingerie and the cut is flattering to the uneducated eye. The tailoring is not deliberately customised to her angles and curves, but few men in the room are bothered by that. Men tend to look at Miss Mackinnon, and rarely seem to note or care that she is gay.

Lord Moran is not looking at her. His posture suggests he knows and is perfectly comfortable with Miss Mackinnon's sexuality.

He is gazing around the room. Assessing it. Jim watches the blond calmly note the exits, entrances, blind spots, cameras, potential hazards, potential weapons, and the room's other occupants.

Those occupants have noticed him too. They don't have the sense to recognise the young lord, but they can tell he is the chaperone of Miss Mackinnon. They resent this interference. They resent Lord Moran's physical superiority almost as much.

He's a large brute, whether he's leashed by the little harlot or not. In a fair fight, Jim would have almost zero chance of besting the blond.

Jim Moriarty has never fought fair. He closes the window and buzzes the pair through.

Young Lord Moran opens the door for Miss Mackinnon, sweeps the room with a gaze, then glances back behind himself before he follows the young woman into Jim's office. Jim feels odd for the split second when the blond man makes eye contact, then feels odder still as Moran looks away.

Lord Moran seems both humble and irritatingly confident as he settles beside Mackinnon with a softly bowed head and straight-backed shoulders in a distinctly uncomfortable chair. Miss Mackinnon looks a little guilty to have brought a 'guest' along, but she also seems more relaxed than usual. She clearly feels safer in her companion's presence. All two hundred plus pounds of it.

“You'll excuse me if I don't get up,” Jim says harshly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Miss July Mackinnon's doe eyes widen in naked dismay. She cannot seem to help herself from exposing something or other at any given opportunity. “U-Uhm, we have, ah, um, _appointment_?” she stammers.

“Do we?” Jim mused. He looks down his nose at her. “I am aware of no such 'appointment'.”

Miss Mackinnon swallows and blinks rapidly. “I-I thought… to talk about my numbers? Your secretary let us in.”

“I don't remember scheduling a meeting for three,” Jim says.

Miss Mackinnon's voice is strained. “Oh, excuse me, I just thought...”

Jim raises his eyes in faux innocence. “Oh yes, go on?”

Miss Mackinnon swallows unhappily. “Um. That it might be helpful. To have someone help me understand the numbers...”

Jim arches a brow. “Yes, dear; I do believe that is something which you pay me for.”

The young woman squirms. She indicates her companion, who is gazing back at Jim _quite_ coolly. Mackinnon whimpers, “I just meant… you know… for when you aren't … with me...”

Jim steeples his fingers once more and rests his chin upon them with an expression of derision. “Am I going somewhere?” he enquires in an almost threatening, faux-conspiratorial stage whisper.

Miss Mackinnon's complexion seems incapable of determining whether to settle upon white, puce, or some hue in between. “Um, no,” she whispers.

Lord Moran foolishly clears his throat. Announcing his presence in this way is akin to a threat, and Jim will punish that later. For now he ignores the brainless brawn.

“Are _you_ going somewhere?” Jim enquires of his client with a hint of malice.


	3. No Knee-High Socks On Him

Monty is unusually subdued after the visit to her accountant.

Sebastian tries to talk to her about it, but she denies him with a white-faced shake of her head and gives him a tight-lipped smile. Seb feels chastised, and not in the way he is used to. It makes him feel guilty, and that makes him feel frustrated, and he kind of wants to hit something. Like that little accountant. Repeatedly. In the face.

Even though that seems like a terrible idea. The little Irishman appears somehow dangerous, but Sebastian is mostly unenthusiastic about upsetting his friend.

She has given him a roof over his head when everyone else has been avoiding or outright rejecting him, and the last thing Seb wants to do is give Monty strife for that kindness.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says, which is not a phrase he is used to saying or meaning.

Miss July Mackinnon looks at him. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about; _you_ did nothing wrong,” she says.

Sebastian purses his own lips dubiously.

“ _You_ were only trying to help me,” Monty says. “It was my idea to bring you along.”

Sebastian is especially unused to being told he is not the one at fault after something has gone awry. “I’m sorry anyway,” he says, because he is not quite sure how to say ‘thank you’ in this circumstance.

Monty gives a small nod. “Let’s just get you fed, yes?” she says. “You had my back today, and that deserves a good meal.”

Seb blinks. He has certainly never before been offered a reward by the person he has gotten into trouble.

Monty rolls her eyes and tries to smile naturally. She walks about their kitchen and tries to think of something other than her disastrous meeting. Her shoulders stay tense, but with every cupboard door and drawer she opens, pulls something from, and closes, she feels a little more reassured that she is once more in a safe space.

“Can I help?” Sebastian asks.

“If you like,” Monty says gently. She notices her hands are still shaking. “You could chop the vegetables, maybe?”

Sebastian nods and washes his hands before pulling out a chopping board. “How much do we need?”

“Just enough for you for now,” Monty says.

Seb’s brow crinkles. “You’re not eating?”

“I’ve got a session in a little while,” Monty says. “I’ll eat after that.”

Sebastian gives her a concerned look, but Monty looks down at the ingredients and starts throwing them into a pot of water. “I’m… Thank you for coming today,” she says over the hiss and spit of the boiling water.

“It made things worse,” Seb says.

Monty pinches spices and releases them into the water slowly. She looks at Sebastian. “I felt safer with you there.”

Sebastian is quiet. He nods and turns down the heat of the water before Monty scalds herself.

She is normally entirely put together.

Monty leaves to get ready once Sebastian’s food is prepared. It tastes good, despite the unease that remains in his gut. By the time Seb has emptied his plate Monty has pulled herself together.

She looks a little fiercer than usual; her make-up is sharp and her features made jagged. Monty’s outfit is tight and shiny and even with the blank, vaguely bored expression resting on her face she looks intimidating.

Sebastian cracks a soft smile. “Going to give your accountant a spanking, are you?”

Monty spills out a peal of nervous but genuine mirth. “Christ, I’m not that brave,” she says. She shifts her weight and absently glances over her shoulders as though subconsciously worried her tormentor may appear from the shadows. She straightens her spine and her outfit.

The doorbell goes. Monty’s hands tighten. Sebastian finds himself on his feet, but Monty makes her voice almost convincingly calm as she says, “That’ll be the other person I’m filming with today.”

Seb stays n his feet but chooses to act as though there is no doubt the visitor is a planned guest. “Do you want me to make myself scarce or do you need a hand with your equipment?”

Monty considers as she walks towards the door. The question seems like a welcome distraction for her raw nerves. “I might appreciate a bit of help setting up the lighting,” she muses.

She opens the door and her shoulders drop in subconscious relief. “Come on in,” she says.

A redhead in over-the-knee socks steps inside with a warm smile. Sebastian’s eyebrows raise and he blinks a little as he looks between his lesbian housemate and… the rather adorable _boy_ who has just crossed their threshold.

“Sebs, this is Llewellyn – cam name Roary; Llewy this is Sebastian,” Monty says as she closes the door.

The redhead looks Sebastian over appreciatively. “Damn, I’d like to see what you’ve starred in,” he says.

Sebastian’s ears turn pink. “I -um...”

“Sebastian’s just here to look pretty and reach high shelves for me,” Monty says wryly. “He’s going to help me set up the lighting.”

Llewellyn continues to eye a mildly flustered Seb as Monty leads through to her bedroom. “Well if he ever wants a job as fluffer...”

Monty snorts. “Down, boy. Your arse is mine today.”

Oh yes. Seb had wondered why the fuck Monty was going to film with a boy, hadn’t he?

Monty seems to read Sebastian’s mind. “You’ve heard of ‘gay for pay’, haven’t you?” she says calmly. She shrugs as she bows over some camera equipment and adjust various settings. “Think of this as… ‘straight for rates’.”

“Pretty sure it’s only straight if I’m the one spreading your cheeks,” Llewellyn says dryly. He flops down on the bed. “Where do you want me?”

Monty snorts. “Like that would ever happen. Right there. Seb, can you check the lighting if I’m with Llew?”

Sebastian takes his eyes away from the strap-on beside Llewellyn and steps over to the laptop hooked to Monty’s camera. He purses his lips. “I’m not sure; you’re wearing a lot of black,” Seb mutters. “Let me take a test shot.”

“Take a few,” Monty says. “It needs to be a good shot whichever way I’m holding Roary.”

“Folding, more like,” Llewellyn says. “Should I take my top off? I’m pretty white, so...”

“Yeah, that’s a fair point,” Monty says. She helps the redhead out of his clothing and pins him into a suggestive position before looking over to Sebastian. “Take a shot?”

Seb tries not to let the surreal situation distract him and obediently takes a photo. Monty flips an entirely accommodating Roary over and looks to Seb again. He takes another photo. Monty bends Roary in half. Sebastian takes a photo.

Monty ruffles red hair and crosses over to Sebastian. He drops his eyes to the laptop screen and softly mutters, “I think we need to adjust the.. um, here..?”

Monty presses against Seb’s broad chest to see. “Yeah, you’re right,” she murmurs. She moves around some colour dials then pulls away. She walks back towards the bed. Her back is strikingly pale against the black ribbons of her shiny, corset-style dress.

“Try another?” Monty says.

“Do you want to grab Roary?” Sebastian suggests.

Monty does so, the redhead curling against her calmly, and Seb takes the photo.

Monty bounces back over. “That’s better, but...” She purses her lips. “Can you go sit on the bed, please?” she asks. “I need to adjust it by eye I think.”

Sebastian blinks. “I’m not wearing that… shiny stuff. And I’m taller,” he says.

“That’s okay; I can adjust for that,” Monty murmurs, eyes still on the laptop. 

Sebastian stands for a beat longer then approaches the pale redhead. He’s quite a cute little thing, but far too pliable and likeable for Seb’s tastes.

“Roary, can you sit in Seb’s lap please?” Monty directs.

“Gladly,” the little twink purrs.

Sebastian rolls his eyes, but feels a bit less cocky as a warm weight lands on his thighs. Seb’s hands go to Llewellyn’s soft sides automatically.

Roary arches his back and turns to look at the cameras. “Well?” he asks Monty.

Monty takes a test shot and chuckles. “I’m glad we’ve captured Seb’s face here, and I think we’re finally right. Sebby, can we swap places please?”

To Sebastian’s surprise, Roary tumbles off of his lap without much protest and grins as Monty pulls him down onto her’s.

Seb returns to the camera and takes another test shot. Monty joins him and grins, ruffling his short, blond hair. “Perfect, big man,” she says.

“Am I dismissed?” Sebastian asks. 

“If you like,” Monty says. She hugs his neck and stands, switching the camera to film. “Get up, Roary; I’m going to take your frilly little knickers down and do what I like with your sweet little arse.”

Llewellyn grins and waits until Sebastian is at the door before saying, “Come and make me.”

Sebastian uses the resultant playful slap Monty gives Roary’s ‘sweet little arse’ to cover the noise of his sidling out the door. Roary’s yelp is bright and giggly.

Sebastian sighs and goes to his own bedroom. It’s distracting, knowing there’s a cute little twink about to get his pale arse soundly fucked on camera.

Still, he’s not Seb’s type. Sebastian does like his lovers small and pale, but they’ve got to have a lot more fight in them. Roary is warm and flirty and giggly – barely even naughty. Sebastian’s tastes tend to run right past ‘bad’ and into ‘straight up fucked up’.

Sebastian sighs and grabs his laptop, rolling onto his bed. It’s been a while since he’s had someone straddle his lap, precious or otherwise. He puts on his earphones.

Seb gives himself an absent-minded stroke and trawls through a wall of videos online. He wants a little brunet, scrawny and plucky and probably a biter. Preferably being soundly fucked by someone of Sebastian’s own build.

He makes a selection and does not realise until he is nearing completion that he is thinking of that blasted little dark-eyed, bristly, pale Irish accountant. Seb would put good money on that little bastard being a biter.


	4. Two Brunets, One Website

One of the disadvantages of being a young genius carefully crafting one's own extensive underground web is a stark lack of competent lackies to carry out the more delicate but still decidedly mind-numbing tasks. As such, Jim has taken the unenviable task of spying on a reclusive target himself, and he sorely resents every rotten second of it.

Comhnall Fearchar is a decidingly boring little fellow. Shorter than Jim himself, the man has a waifish, malnourished appearance, a dazed, oftimes wobbling gait, and a seemingly permanent, downright stupid expression. The civil servant's suits are designer, but never quite fit right, and Fearchar regularly makes the unforgivable sin of pairing those with flannel. Jim Moriarty hates the man on sight.

Naturally, staking out Fearchar's workplace is of no enjoyment to Jim. Indeed, it feels like a significant waste of time given that the man never appears to leave the building at lunchtimes, and the irregular hours Fearchar keeps are not making this task fit nicely into Jim's multitude of other concerns.

Not that Jim is paying as much mind to his usual scheming recently. No, he seems instead to have an irritating loop of Miss Mackinnon's new disgraced Lord bodyguard to contend with. Jim had originally taken interest in the girl because her cousin had gotten upto considerable digital naughtiness with the American government. Jim had mostly been disappointed, but there was enough of a lustre that he had kept an eye on her actions, and she had been all too willing to hand over her accounts to him.

Prior to taking in young Lord Moran, the most interesting thing Miss Mackinnon had done of late had been to switch out her social media growth efforts on Tumblr and Twitter - which fed fortuitously into her OnlyFans account – with an increasing array of wares available on Dream Market. Her books declared her actions were content only, but some of Jim's skepticisms had been confirmed with a bit of snooping. Still, how she was making the money she was for what she was seemingly doing was mildly intriguing.

Lord Sebastian Moran had blasted that little mystery out of the water. Jim no longer cared what deviousness the young woman was upto; he only cared about the broad-shouldered brat she had had the affront to bring with her that day.

Jim had fought and failed to overcome thoughts of the disarming blond. Thereafter, the Irishman had spent quite some time indeed stewing over the blueblooded whelp and why - _how_?- Lord Moran had gotten so skillfully under Jim's skin.

Jim could naturally see that Moran was handsome of course: one could hardly miss the man's huge and muscular physique, good, strong jawline or striking eyes. However, these were not charms which typically took Jim's attention from his work. Jim could be a horrible little flirt when it suited him to be, but he was never one to be distracted by a beautiful man.

There is something more to Lord Moran's undeniable appeal than physicality.

He's got more of that quiet cleverness that Mackinnon has, although it's clear that Moran's Oxford education has not equipped him with a thorough understanding of what 'making content' entails, even if he can keep up with the numbers.

It's not that though… Or at least, not _just_ that which holds Jim's attention. Perhaps it's that the blond has so clearly seen action, despite having been of an Officer class. Moran has an alert understanding of his surroundings and looks ready for a fight at an instant's notice. It's quite charming, if one is into that sort of thing.

As though determined to continue being an exasperating distraction, Jim's phone alerts him to young Lord Moran logging onto his laptop. Jim glances annoyedly at his surroundings: bleak concrete buildings morosely free of Flannel Fearchar.

Jim keeps half an eye on the comings and goings near the glass doorways and unlocks his phone. A few deft swipes of his thumb and Jim has pulled up a mirror of Moran's computer screen in realtime.

The disgraced former officer goes straight to his web browser and – without so much as opening an incognito window- types out the beginning of what is blatantly a porn site's URL. The web address autocompletes from (one supposes) frequent use.

Jim casts another idle glance around himself. No sight of Comhnall Fearchar still.

Jim supposes it might be interesting to note what Moran looks at, for blackmail purposes. Knowledge is power and all that, although it probably doesn't take a genius to presume the man likes those big-breasted, fake-lipped women who moan loudly during anal and probably like getting their long hair pulled. As respectful as the blond seemed to be with Miss Mackinnon's personal space, Jim's research has gleaned plenty of rumours of Moran's drunken womanising and debauchery.

Although perhaps young Lord Moran is not being given the credit he is due… Just because he is entitled and built like a tank and has eyes like a killer doesn't always necessitate Moran being a boring boor in the bedroom.

Public schools are said to be riddled with buggery, but Jim can't quite picture the big, broad, tanned blond tumbling into bed with some of his rugby chums. And it was a rugby team Moran was part of, not the more prestigious rowing team, so perhaps the man has a shred of independent thought. Or just a violent streak.

Jim wrinkles his nose. He's not convinced he wants to see Moran choose a video of some young woman being slapped across all four of her cheek implants.

Unless Moran's the type who likes a spanking. As an overentitled, overgrown, spoilt brat who seeks out disciplined army life only to push the rules so far as to be kicked out, it would not be so surprising if Moran had a thing for strict schoolmarms and scolding nannies, would it? Perhaps even a commanding officer with a stern voice and a swishing cane.

Jim's racing mind slows as Moran selects the MLM tab. The Irishman tries to bring his eyes back to the building he is supposed to be watching, but he cannot hide the peculiar, infuriating feeling of pleasure that small choice gives him.

Jim looks down at his phone screen again. Moran has selected 'twinks' and then 'brats' in swift succession. Before Jim can even really process that, Moran is rushing past video tiles until he pauses and selects one, too fast for Jim to even make sense of the preview thumbnail beyond a blur of pinkish flesh.

A brunet suddenly fills the screen. Pouting and scowling, the lithe young man is ordered to the lap of a stern, muscular partner. Jim has his phone muted, but the jist from the bigger man's moving mouth is clear. The brunet makes a show of huffing even as he bounces over to obey. He straddles the bigger man, pushing out his bottom to have it grabbed, squeezed and smacked. He pouts some more, giving the camera 'attitude' even as he throws his arms over the other man's broad shoulders comfortably.

Before Jim can fully process his feel- his _thoughts_ on this video choice, Moran surprises him by clicking out of it. The disgraced Lord continues scrolling by videos and selects another with a wiry brunet.

Moran drags the video partway in, previewing pink and red scratches appearing on the muscular back of the partner of this new 'brat'. There are bruises on the brunet's bottom, and bite marks – some of them bleeding softly- along the bigger man's throat and chest.

Moran returns the video to the start and lets it play.

Well. Now Jim knows what Moran likes, doesn't he? He doesn't know suddenly what to do with the knowledge that not only does the big blond like _that_ , he is almost certainly _touching himself_ whilst now watching it.

Jim is so distracted he almost misses Fearchar leaving work. The man is a little apart from his small group of colleagues and listlessly flapping his hands at the older Ugandan woman at his side. 

Jim jabs at his phone to both save the webpage and switch on the little camera at the top of Sebastian Moran's laptop screen, then he hurriedly tucks his phone away and tries to concentrate.


End file.
